Our new year began with the sad news of DOB's Uncle Dan's sudden passing. This, in turn, spurred an unplanned trip to Ohio for the first time in 15 years, along with Duchess, Mr. Duchess, and Dash. DOB wound up spending about ten hours on the phone straightening out the tickets. Duchess coordinated entertainment and snacks, Dash navigated, and Mr. Duchess pushed the wheelchair (DOB does not trust his power chair to the tender mercies of the airlines). I showed up and didn't lose anything I was carrying (except my lunch, once) and was very much reminded why we never tried to do this with four small children.
The bittersweet thing about funerals that starts coming home in midlife is that they are often the only time you get together and see all the rest of the people. We were able to stay parceled out amongst DOB's two youngest brothers and their families, meet the baby neiphlings, see DOB's parents and other aunt and uncle, visit our old church and show Duchess and Dash our early houses and the parks we always played at. (Everything being covered with a foot of snow, we mostly viewed things from inside the cars.)
We also caught the norovirus, which delayed Duchess and Mr. Duchess traveling back with us. This may have contributed to the unwise moment when Dash and DOB decided to try traversing the moving sidewalk with the wheelchair. The first one went uneventfully, even with DOB dragging a wheeled carryon alongside him and Dash having a massive backpack on. So we got on another, me trailing behind carrying a large carryon, my purse, two coats, a water bottle, and a badly wrapped sandwich. And then at the end of the second moving sidewalk, the front wheels jammed and Dash and I were stuck behind walking briskly in place to keep from being crushed into the back of the wheelchair with no room to get around the extra wheeled carry on. I realized something needed to be done to change the situation and the best thing I could think of was to fling myself--bags, coats and snacks entire--over the top of DOB to get to the other side of the sidewalk and then tug the wheels loose from that side. Somehow I did this and then did indeed manage to drag the chair off the sidewalk, although by this time the back wheel tire had also come off. We were flung about in the debris of this encounter and trying to wedge the tire back on when a flight attendant strolled by and remarked blandly, "You're not supposed to do that." No kidding. (Yes, there was an emergency kill switch, but no, I did not notice it in time to use it.)
After we returned home I went to the eye doctor's to pick up my very first pair of driving glasses. This is probably not a big deal to those who have worn glasses their entire lives, but for me it is a big step, and not just the physical adaptation to having something on my face (hopefully at some point without triggering a headache). Every other sign of aging one could probably address in some way with more yoga or less fat or eating three pumpkin seeds by the light of the crescent moon, but this just is: your eyes are old. They are getting older. It will not get better. It will just get worse, and worse, until you die. I did the math today and realized that Uncle Dan was just about the age DOB and I are now when I joined the family. Those 22 years went quickly and I do not know if I have another 10, like my mother, or 22, like Uncle Dan, or even 46 like some of my grandparents. But I very likely have less ahead of me than behind of me.
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